


Epitaph

by pride_and_pancakes



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M, Uprootedxchange2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22011829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pride_and_pancakes/pseuds/pride_and_pancakes
Summary: Solya mourns, even if he won't say it.@taywen's gift for the 2019 Uprooted Fic Exchange.
Relationships: The Falcon | Solya & Stashek, The Falcon | Solya & The Dragon | Sarkan, The Falcon | Solya/Marek
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Uprooted Holiday Fic Exchange 2019





	Epitaph

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taywen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/gifts).



> “Our loved ones may be nailed in a coffin but their epitaph is nailed in our hearts. Death cannot kill love.”  
> ― Vincent Okay Nwachukwu, Weighty 'n' Worthy African Proverbs - Volume 1

It comes to him bit by bit.

The first time it happens is the morning after, as they cross the passage out of the Valley. Solya, the future King of Polnya, his heir and one extraordinarily strong peasant girl, are all crammed into the back of a dingy wagon, not a single pillow in sight, being jostled from side to side on the bumpy road to Gidna. One would expect the road to one of the nation’s major ports to be better kept, but no such luck.

Despite their uncomfortable transport, the royal children are asleep, the Princess nestled in her brother’s lap, head tucked under his chin, making breathy little sounds that he can barely hear over the sounds of the road. The Prince sleeps like he does everything else, as Solya’s starting to believe - with a very serious face. The peasant girl is awake, but entirely unwilling to talk to him, splitting her attention between the children and the scenery and only giving him the occasional evil glare. Whenever she does, her hand tightens on the grip of a cleaver he never saw her bring into the wagon, as though he’s a moment away from turning into a dragon and swallowing them whole.

At this point, Solya’s not yet so desperate as to make chit chat with the driver, so he settles for watching the scenery himself. It’s dreadfully boring, and he’s weighing the pros and cons of pulling out a book - reading on the road makes him awfully nauseous - when something in the distance catches his eye.

It’s a clearing by the roadside, nothing remarkable about it, and yet, Solya recognizes it immediately.

It was there, in that very patch of land, obscured from the soldiers’ camp down the road by trees and nighttime, that Solya kissed him for the last time.

Marek was tense that night, worried about his throne, about what Sarkan and the Baron of the Yellow Marches, neither one of them his greatest admirer, would do once they had his niece and nephew in their power. A civil war to place Prince Stashek on the throne was the main concern, in Solya’s opinion. Marek had other fears.

“We must surround them,” he said, “We must leave them no way out, or they’ll try to flee and take Stashek and Marisha.”

“We will surround them. But even if they were to flee, where would they go? The Tower is their only hope,” Solya pointed out, “there’s nowhere else to hide.”

Marek just looked at him, a shadow over his eyes Solya had hoped to never see again after Queen Hanna was finally rescued.

"Sarkan has been fighting the Wood for over a century! He’s not about to let them take the children into it!”

But he wouldn’t be comforted. Not with words, at least. There, under the moonless sky, they were together for the last time.

Thrown out from his memories, Solya lets out a choked gasp, “Stop. Stop!”

The wagon halts, shaking Stashek and Marisha awake, but Solya barely spares them any thought, jumping over the side and stumbling down the road. He takes no more than a couple of steps before falling to his knees and emptying his stomach on the packed dirt.

In his mind, the sight of Marek against the grass, eyes closed and mouth slack in blissful pleasure, has been replaced by the look of desperate confidence Solya has seen before, on the eve of a lost battle. Certainty of success, but only because they could not afford to lose. The very look Marek wore as the monster dressed in his mother’s skin crushed his heart.

* * *

The second time comes weeks later.

They’re at Gidna, Solya, the young Crown Prince of Polnya, the Princess and their newest shadow, and at Gidna they will remain for the foreseeable future. The Magnati will assemble to vote on the succession at some point, of course, and they will all have to travel to Kralia for the coronation ceremony, but even those old grouchers can’t hope to overrule both Sarkan and Alosha now that they know how deep are the roots of corruption in the capital. As such, the vote has been postponed until Kralia is deemed safe again for the royal family.

For now, King Kasimir’s council is in charge of the day to day running of the country. Tax collection, road maintenance, open hearings, and other matters that cannot be delayed. For example, the funeral rites for the fallen at the Battle for the Tower.

The bodies were collected not long after Sarkan and little Jaga had crawled half-dead out of the Wood, and by rights should have been interred by now. But amongst those bodies is a member of the royal family that is now being accused by the court of plotting the death of his father, older brother, and nephew in his lust for power. It makes things slightly more complicated.

Solya is well aware of the happenings at Kralia, despite being half a country away. He’s also very experienced when it comes to court politics and knew from the start that, as Prince Stashek’s grandfather and likely regent, the Archduke of Gidna was bound to be consulted on the proper proceedings.

He never expected the boy himself to be consulted, but apparently a future king, even a seven years old one, can’t be spared from the unpleasant side of court politics.

His official role at Gidna is to guard the royal children against magical threats, born of corruption or not, and as a result, he attends most of their lessons. Princess Marisha, very much a little girl bolts from the room the moment her tutors excuse her, usually pulling her favorite playmate by the hand. Prince Stashek, an even more dutiful brother than he is a dutiful pupil, complies with his sister’s wishes, indulging in whatever game she’s interested in until dinnertime.

Today, Stashek tells his sister he’ll join her in a moment, and turns his too solemn eyes to Solya instead. Not one to deny royalty, Solya stays behind as the tutors and nursemaids vacate the room. When they’re alone, the Prince speaks.

“They’ll bury my uncle soon.”

The calm of the boy unsettles him, but Solya answers anyway. “I didn’t know that, Your Highness. Did they tell you when?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Stashek says, and Solya has to hold back a flinch. Kralia is a full two days ride away. Even if he were to leave now, he still wouldn’t make it on time. It feels like such a trivial thing to be upset about.

“They didn’t want to bury him with father and mother and grandfather,” he continues. “They called him a traitor, said he wanted to give us to the Wood to replace grandmother.”

Of course, they did. Of course, those-

“I told them they couldn’t do that,” Stashek sobs, and the century-old mage standing in front of him freezes. “Uncle Marek was not a traitor! He didn’t want to hurt us, the Wood was using him! Agnieszka said so, and Kasia said she never lies!”

The serene and composed Crown Prince is gone, and in his place, there’s just a child. A seven years old who, in the span of a single week, lost father, mother, grandfather, uncle and a grandmother he never even knew. Right in front of Solya, crying ugly sobs and clutching his belly in a horribly familiar gesture, there is a boy who lost almost everyone he loved before being dragged across the country with his baby sister, fleeing the only family they had left, only to watch him be killed by the avatar of someone he loved deeply.

“It’s not true, right? Uncle Marek didn’t want to hurt us, he protected us! He stepped in front of grandmother when she tried to get us, he wanted to keep us safe.”

From the moment he was born, people liked to compare Stashek to his Prince Sigmund. And the resemblance between father and son was truly remarkable. But right now, looking at the little boy, Solya sees only the uncle.

The golden hair, the clear eyes, the desperate love for his family, all of those things were who Marek was. Oh, he was other things too. Arrogant, brash, impulsive and ambitious, but also generous, passionate and so, so brave. Brave to the very end.

“He wanted to keep you safe, Stashek. He would never hurt you or your sister.”

He says it to comfort the boy, of course, but Solya knows in his bones that he’s telling the truth. Marek wouldn’t have hurt the children.

His future King throws himself against Solya, wrapping his arms around Solya’s middle and pressing his wet cheeks against Solya’s stomach. The Falcon, the greatest wizard of the realm, sinks to the floor and maneuvers the little boy into a proper hug, as one man’s absence threatens to drown them both.

* * *

It takes a full year before it comes to a head.

They’re back at Kralia, at last. Stashek is now His Majesty, King Kasimir, still a serious little boy with a lot of responsibilities, while Marisha, now the Princess Regelinda, with the natural instinct of a very sweet baby girl, makes it her main duty to have him play with her and the other kids as much as possible. Kasia, the Captain of the Royal Guard, is now taking daily sword lessons alongside the Guard, and private lessons with Alosha, who seems to enjoy her new pupil’s company far too much, in Solya’s opinion.

Solya, after spending the better part of the year working to consolidate his position in court, is getting ready to make the move back to Gidna with the King’s household before winter settles in. After a few difficult months, when his close association with the King’s uncle caused the Lord Regent to distrust him and the courtiers to doubt his favor, his loyalty to the Crown has finally been proved, and Solya is back to enjoying the benefits of being a favorite of the Royal House of Algirdon.

It’s the last ball of the season, and the King’s ballroom is all done up in red and green and gold, with rich tapestries decorated with gold and silver thread, and hundreds of candlesticks encrusted with precious stones. A team of ten performers, actors and jugglers provide the entertainment for the evening, while two dozen musicians fill the hall with a beautiful harmony for the finely dressed guests to dance to. The drink is of the highest quality, the food is abundant, and one cannot take three steps without overhearing a compliment to the Archduchess’ skills as a hostess.

It’s a splendid evening, but Solya can’t appreciate any of it. Tonight, the reminders are everywhere.

Marek used to love nights like this. Not the schmoozing, or making nice with people he didn’t like, or generally dancing to his father’s tune. But moments like now, when the candles are burning low and the children, the maidens and the untested boy have all been sent to bed. The music becomes less courtly and more passionate, the performances turn racier, and the wine and the fading lights make people bolder.

Marek kissed him for the first time on a night like this, drunk on alcohol and the triumph of his first great success as a warrior and a leader of men. And Solya, a wizard more than three times his age, was powerless to resist him.

Their affair was like a whirlwind at first, unexpected and fast-moving. Over the years that followed, the physical aspect of it would wax and wane, and both of them would have other lovers, but at some point that night, Solya and Marek saw something in each other that marked them as kindred spirits. From then on they would become allies on all things, even when they were not bedding together.

When they were together, it was like nothing else he had ever felt. Marek was as enthralling out of the battlefield as he was on it, and everything they did felt brand new to Solya, a man with over half a century of experience on carnal matters.

He was intense, giving everything of himself to the moment between them, and so beautiful under the candlelight, all that warm skin turned golden and the fire reflected in his eyes. Even now, Solya can see it in the flickering candles around the ballroom, an echo of how the light played on Marek’s naked body, bringing into relief the shapes of his muscles.

“Whatever it is you are thinking of, it must be something really important.”

It’s the voice of a young man, filled with the overconfidence of someone unaccustomed to being denied anything, and it makes Solya’s heart lurch. When he turns around, the nobleman standing before him dips into a respectful bow, completely at odds with the smirk on his lips.

“My Lord Falcon,” he says. A minor noble then.

“My Lord,” Solya returns his greeting with a slightly lesser incline of his own head. “I fear I haven’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

“Sir Ariel Algirdon. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, I have heard wondrous things about you and your abilities, although,” and at this, he gives Solya a long appraising look, “rumor seems to fall short to reality, as it often does.”

A cousin of the royal family, then. A distant one, going by the lack of a formal title. Solya considers asking what kind of rumors exactly the boy’s talking about, the old ones about his supposed fading skills and failure to recognize the trap set up by the Wood, or the new ones about his alleged torrid affair with Alosha’s newest toy, but decides against it. At the moment, he doesn’t really want to know.

If Ariel Algirdon’s intentions were not made clear by that introduction, they soon are. The boy - because that’s what he is, a boy barely out of the schoolroom - means to make himself into Solya’s entertainment for the evening. He’s out of luck, though. As the night goes on, his best lines and sultry smiles manage only to make Solya’s chest feel tighter and tighter.

They’re not very good to begin with, of course. Again, Sir Ariel is young, for all that he fancies himself a seducer.

But his eyes are too light, his lashes are too long, and they make it impossible for Solya to meet his gaze. His voice is slightly too high for someone his age and every word makes Solya’s shoulders more tense. His hair is too golden, his skin too tan, his fingers too long as he waves his hands around. It’s all too familiar, and Solya can hear his own breath grow quicker. When Sir Ariel lays a hand on his exposed wrist, Solya snaps. His palms are not callused enough.

He barely manages to excuse himself before striding across the ballroom, towards the large balcony doors. Solya walks through and immediately turns back around, cursing his lack of foresight, as the balcony is crawling with courtiers, whispering in duos or trios in the illusion of privacy the dark of the night affords them.

The closest doorway leads to the servants’ entrance, and Solya slips behind a serving girl with a platter full of delicacies and into the darkened hallway. A few turns later, he finds an alcove and uses the last bit of his self-control to cast a glamour to ward off intruders, before sinking to the ground.

Much to his humiliation, Sarkan is the one that finds him.

“Well, that’s a poor work of a glamour.”

Solya would have liked nothing better than to shot back a witty retort, but he can’t seem to draw enough breath. Or lift his head. Or open his eyes.

He listens to the sound of rustling clothing, and figures Sarkan has settled on the ground in front of him. When Sarkan gets no answer, he continues.

"I saw you talking with the newest commander in His Majesty's army. He seemed keen, I thought you would enjoy the attention-"

"What do you want?"

Solya is past being polite. His heartbeat won't slow down, his eyes won't stop burning, and Sarkan should tread lightly before Solya summons lightning to smite him like he deserves, smug bastard that he is.

"You looked distressed," Sarkan answers after a moment. When Solya lifts his head and gives him a blank look, he continues, "It was only reasonable that someone should check on your well being."

"That is odd, for you."

Solya's known him for long enough to recognize a flustered Dragon when he sees it.

"I understood later, of course," here it goes. "The idiotic boy looks like Marek. Entirely too much for such a distant relative."

"First you're worried about me, and now you're inciting adultery rumors! Little Jaga really did change you, Sarkan."

The old grump bristles, and Solya feels easier for it. He can breathe again, and so he says, "I miss him."

In the silence that follows, they can hear the muffled sounds of music and chatter coming from the party.

"I’ve never said it before, but I am sorry for your loss, Solya."

"Prince Marek was a worthy ally," it's the immediate response, but the words feel like sand in his mouth. "He was," he hesitates, "a friend."

"Marek was your long-time lover. The only long-time lover I've ever known you to have," Sarkan looks pensive. "If Agniezska was here, she'd say it's alright for you to mourn."

"It's been a year."

"What is a year to people like us?"

What is one year to people who live centuries? What is one second to a man who has seen millions of them? Sometimes, Solya reflects, a second is all it takes. One second he was here, the next he was gone, and now no one, nowhere, will ever see him again. No one will hear his voice, or feel his laughter, or touch his hair, or taste his skin. Marek is gone, and a piece of Solya has gone with him.

"I think I loved him. I think he loved me too, in his own way."

"I won't pretend to know Marek's heart," Sarkan says. "I know he trusted you, and Marek didn't trust his own blood most of the time. I also know he wanted you at his side more than anyone else. I'm not an expert in love, but that seems a lot like it."

The two most powerful wizards to have ever been born on Polnyan soil look at each other, sitting in the dusty floor of a dark servants' corridor.

“How do I go on?”

**Author's Note:**

> And it's done!
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed your gift, taywen! I'd meant to write something a little more complex, but my new job is taking a lot from me, and will continue to do so for a little while longer. When things wind down a little, though, I might end up writing something else for Marek and Solya. I had about three different ideas for those two! They are a really great pairing to write.
> 
> Thanks to athenasdragon for hosting this exchange and thanks to everyone else for reading. I hope you guys had as much fun as I did!


End file.
